The Drip’s Insistence

Tick-tock, drip-drip—time leaks slow and sharp,

water hanging from a faucet’s cracked lip.

The kitchen light hums low, lonely.

Each drop punches the metal sink,

a slow rhythm that won’t let me rest.

Mind races, the clock spins faster,

thoughts tangled tight and blistered.

I lie awake, counting each cold drip,

till the night stretches thin and breaking,

and the faucet drums its stubborn beat,

like a restless ghost I can’t escape.